"Work" was an understatement, especially in the area of firearms. Many of the Newbies had never even handled a weapon before, much less fired one. With training, they might become decent. And then there a few who I felt would most certainly be kicked out because of their attitude toward the weapons. These were the people who believed they knew how to use a gun solely because they played first-person-shooter video games. Their lack of respect for their firearms had nearly caused more than one accident on the range, mainly from failure to always treat their weapon as if it were loaded.

Owen was our primary firearms instructor, and, two weeks in, Gerald did something that amazed the experienced hunter.

That day, we were being trained in the use of pump-action shotguns. To determine our baseline skill, we were doing what was called a Dozier drill. The drill consisted of five 8-inch x 8-inch steel plates, each a yard away from the next in the line, set up at ten yards away. Our objective was to hit each plate with a Remington 870 in as little time as possible.

I had a preference for semi-autos over pump guns, but, as Owen had explained, MHI had some specialty shotgun ammunition that was incompatible with autoloaders. Still, I had been trained in the use of Mossberg pump-actions in the Corps, so I was still able to get the drill done in three seconds, which Owen had said was respectable. However, at the beginning of the lessons, he had demonstrated a time of one-point-seven seconds.

Then it was Gerald's turn. He had always preferred pumps to semis, so he put up an impressive score. He put all five targets down with less than half a second spent on pumping, acquiring the next target, and pulling the trigger. Owen stared at the shot-registering timer he held. "One point eight-eight? Wow. Only a hundredth of a second slower than my first time here. You're a natural."

Gerald simply smirked in reply.

However, I got to impress the instructors in my own way when we were being trained in the use of rifles. I was situated behind a sandbag rest upon which a Remington 700 was positioned. I had fired several M40s (one of the militarized versions of the 700) in the Corps, so I needed only a couple of practice shots to familiarize myself with this particular weapon's firing quirks, especially the recoil difference between the 7.62 mm NATO load the M40 fires and the .308 the 700 fires.

After reloading, I announced, "Shooter ready."

My target was a high-visibility model, with black target-ring-marked paper taped to a block of red foam set twenty-five yards away; a nice touch, the red. The purpose of the test was, like the Dozier drill, to see how well we could combine speed and accuracy.

"Stand by," our rifle instructor, who turned out to be Julie, announced.

I drew in a deep breath and focused the entirety of my being on the coming shots to the point that each breath seemed to echo in my head. The starting beep of the timer had barely registered by the time I was pulling the trigger. Immediately, my hand darted to the bolt and cycled it in a second. I repeated that process for the remaining three rounds in the magazine, leaving the bolt open after the last shot.

A wolfish grin spread across my lips; even from where I was sitting, I could see that each bullet had gone more or less into the exact same spot. The grin spread as Julie confirmed, "Six point four seconds. With a spread of less than half an inch. I'm the team sharpshooter, and I can't shoot that well."

"Six years as a Marine sniper, ma'am," I replied as I removed the grin.

One of the other Newbies retorted, "That sounded like a semi." Nope, I had simply practiced for hundreds of hours to cycle an M40's bolt as fast as possible.

"Lusano, let's see just how good you are." Owen turned to Milo, the instructor with the red beard who took care of MHI's armory and special equipment and barked, "Milo! Set up a target at one hundred yards."

"Make it two hundred, please," I objected without taking my contentious glare away from the younger instructor. "Anything less is a boring sissy's shot." Though my vocal tone remained perfectly level and calm, no one missed the intended slight, and I heard several sharp gasps from the assembled Newbies.

Owen either ignored it or recovered immediately and said, "No scopes, just iron sights."

"Four rounds."

"Four centers."

"And we get all the time we need for each shot."

"Fine. Let's see who's the better rifleman."

Catching his tone, I asked, "You do not want to be second-best at anything, do you?" The glare he gave me told me so even before the verbal affirmative. "Well, I shall apologize in advance for being a source of aggravation, sir, but neither do I."

"We shall see."

As I sat back down and began to reload, I heard Gerald bet on my shooting, telling one other Newbie, "A hundred bucks says Jerry outshoots Owen."

"You're on."

As I removed the scope, I thought about Owen's skills as a marksman. He was an incredible pistoleer, and his abilities with a shotgun were un-friggin-believable. However, his skills with a rifle were an unknown quantity.

"I'll shoot first," Owen stated.

"All yours," I replied as I stood and stepped back. Good. Show me how well I must shoot.

While Owen took a minute to fire all four rounds, he was a very good marksman; my sniping instructor in the Corps would have liked the pattern. A three-quarter inch grouping at that range of iron sights was very impressive.

However, "very impressive" was too low a standard to hold myself to. After Owen reloaded the weapon and stood, I settled myself back behind the Remington.

Now, one thing to note is that a Remington 700 is never meant to be used without its scope mounted. Thus, its scope rail is the closest the sniper rifle comes to having iron sights. In position, I began to meditate and focus my entire being on the next four shots. Soon enough, the entire world, with the exception of my firing lane, fell away from my perception.

Once I instinctively felt that the rifle's alignment was perfect, I took the shot…and the next and the next, and the last, pausing only long enough to recover from and correct for the recoil of the previous shout, my hand flicking automatically up to cycle the bolt at lightning speed (Get it? Bolt, lightning…yeah, never mind.) Even before the echo of the last round's discharge had faded, I knew that each shot had been perfect.

After bringing in the target and measuring my pattern, Julie whistled and muttered, "Half an inch? Damn, he's good."

Behind me, I could hear grumbling as several Newbies paid their lost bets.

"Lusano!" Owen barked.

"Sir?"

"Tell everyone how you use your rifle. Everyone here could learn something. A single shot could be the only difference between you killing the monster or the monster killing you or your team, so learn to make the shot count. It could save your life. On my first mission, a wight would have bitten my face off had Julie not put a bullet right between its eyes." He stopped, waiting for me to speak. When he realized that I was awaiting for express confirmation that he had finished, he added, "Well, go ahead, smart-ass."

I nodded and began, "There are many factors that allow a shooter to become good. The three most important are familiarity with your weapon, the ability to calculate shooting variables such as range and wind pattern on the fly, and the ability to feel the shot with your entire mind, body, and soul. For the first, practice with your weapon until you know it better than your mother, your spouse, your children, or, if you possess none of those things, the back of your hand. For the second, also practice. Let me give you an example of calculating range." I turned and searched for something unique. And I did. "See that gnarled old willow past the end of the range? How far away is it?" I pointed at Gerald and added, "You received the same training I did, so you don't get to say it." I'd calculated the distance to be four hundred fifty yards. I heard guesstimations ranging from three hundred yards to nearly a thousand. One Newbie, however, was spot-on correct. "Good job. Four hundred fifty yards. Now, how did you figure that out?"

"I took a ten-point buck at that distance, once."

I nodded and smiled in appreciation. "Good. Make a note. To accurately estimate the range of a shot, take what you know and work from there. Next variable, wind. What is the speed and direction, nearest you can tell?" I'd pegged it at between five to seven miles per hour and going east-by-northeast.

Without hesitation, a different Newbie replied, "Six point two miles per hour bearing three-oh-seven degrees." After all eyes turned toward her, she continued, "You combine life-long autism with twelve years as an ATC at a low-traffic airport and see what happens."

Milo's chuckling forestalled other comments.

I quickly returned the conversation back to the sniping lesson. "Now, for those of you who have not spent your adult lives memorizing wind gauges, wind direction is the more easily measured property. There are two methods to do that. First, look at the surrounding vegetation, tall grass being the best, and see how it bends. If there is no vegetation supple enough to yield to the wind, lick your finger and hold it in the air until one side gets cold. As for wind speed, that is something that practice, alone, will allow you to gauge.

"Now, the third major factor for good shooting is also the hardest to master. To take the best shot possible, one must focus every fiber of their being on the shot. Judging from your expressions, most of you have no clue what that means. It means that, by the time the shooter pulls the trigger, they have focused so intently on making the shot count that the rest of the world simply fades away from existence for them. A glorious calm settles over you. Time seems to slow. Then you see the results of your shot…I apologize. I do not have many fond sniping memories."

"Okay. That's it for today. Class dismissed."

I believe I managed to mutter a weak "Thank you, sir" as I began to walk back to my room in the barracks.

That night, as Gerald, the smug bastard, was counting his winnings from my shooting, I drifted off to sleep, and I had the first dream I'd had in decades.

I stood in a bright forest in my cougar form. The scents of civilization just didn't exist in this place. It was, for lack of a better word, magical. This forest resonated with the beast within me, and, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the entirety of my soul felt at peace.

"Welcome, my child," said a voice that was deep and rich with vitality. The tone was also that which one would expect a kind, caring father to have. I turned to look at the speaker and was only mildly surprised to see another werecougar, only (and, to this day, I do not know how I knew) he was far older and more powerful than I could ever hope to be even if I lived until the end of time. He tapped the boulder upon which he sat and continued, "Come, sit. There is much to discuss."

Before I budged, I wanted to know one thing. "Who are you?"

"My apologies, young one. I sometimes forget that my name is no longer known to most who live today. I am Garuntin, the Spirit of the Panther."

"'Spirit?' Like the Native American Coyote?"

"Their culture is one of the few that still acknowledges our existence as anything more than a fantasy. But, that is a lesson for another time. Please, sit."

And I did, taking care not to crush my tail. "What is it you wished to discuss with me, noble Spirit?" I asked with the full respect Garuntin deserved.

"Quite a courteous young panther you are. But I digress. There is a great evil descending on this world; as it does not directly threaten our existence, we are forbidden from directly intervening. Nor can any one force of good defeat it."

"But, let me guess, all forces of good can win if they can work cooperatively." I made sure to put emphasis on the "if."

"Exactly," the Spirit replied with a nod.

"What kind of evil would we be fighting?"

"That, I am afraid, I cannot tell."

I hated any kind of briefing where information was withheld from me or my comrades-in-arms. "Why the hell not?"

"Please stay calm or you shall shatter the link." As I brought my temper back under control, he sighed and continued, "The Great Spirit has decreed that we cannot say anything that could compromise any sentient's free will."

"Even if said free will leads to our own destruction?"

"Nearly. If the worst does happen and Man would fall, I and several others have agreed to openly defy the Great Spirit and directly fight this evil." A lupine howl reverberated through the forest. "Our time is up. Good luck."

Once he said that, he faded away, followed by the entirety of the forest.

I awoke with a start. Wow. What a dream.

"Hey, Jerry, shift back. And hurry up about it, before someone comes," Gerald pleaded in a worried whisper.

I wondered what he was talking about until I looked down at my chest and saw a coat of light brown fur. I had somehow shifted in my sleep! Suppressing my yowl of shock, I focused and changed back to my human form. Fortunately, I'd worn only a pair of loose-fitting boxers to bed, so I had not damaged my clothes.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"Pardon?"

"You were muttering in your sleep. Some odd language. Wasn't Latin, sure as Hell wasn't Italian. Sounded closest to Hebrew, but…less refined, if you get my meaning."

I rubbed the back of my head and, scoffing quietly, murmured, "You'd think me completely insane if I told you."

"Jeremiah, insane things are now our business. Spill it."

"All right. I was conversing with the Spirit of the Cougar."

Gerald was silent for a moment, thinking, before replying, "Crazy as that sounds, I'll go out on a limb and believe that it's true. What'd you talk about?"

"Well…" I began, but then the wind shifted, bringing in a very familiar scent through the open window, which faced the main building. "Earl's coming."

Seconds later, the Director leaned on the windowsill. Seeing that I was already awake, he stated, "So, I reckon you got a spirit visit, too."

"Yes, sir."

"Who dragged you into their meeting?"

"The Spirit who spoke to me was Garuntin, patron of the Panther."

"Huh. I got Loreli, the wolf-lady."

"It appears that the Spirits are keeping their counsel limited to their species."

"Yeah."

"What do we do next, sir?"

"Let's keep this a secret between the three of us for now. I have a feeling that someone else we two lycanthropes know will come soon to give his input on the matter."